The Seduction
by Zilchtastic
Summary: It's always chancy when the demons stop following the script. This just isn't the way it's supposed to go.


Title: The Seduction

Author: WriterZilch

The place had been a museum, once upon a time. It was closed now, and maybe it would stay that way forever. Dante passed through the wide front doors with a feeling like static crackling in the back of his brain.

"'Not really dangerous'," Dante mouthed as he walked deeper into the museum. He snorted. "This place is buzzing like a hornet's nest. An evil hornet's nest. Last time I take a job from Lady, ever."

There were lights set into sconces, low mood lighting like you'd find in a restaurant, intimate and golden. Dante was pretty sure they weren't supposed to be on. No one left to pay the electric bills, after all. He stepped from pool to pool of that warm light, watching his shadow creep ahead. Down the hallway it was darker. The air was cool; a little musty, a little stale.

Noises whispered at the end of the hall, just beyond where the light could reach. Clicking, rustling, excited sounds, like the tick-tick-tick of a dog's nails on tiles. Something scraped the marble floor, something with a metallic rasp. Dante drew his sword.

The demon came at him, fast as a bad dream. Dante braced for the attack but still found himself pushed back hard enough that his boots left black skid-marks on the shiny marble floor.

"Not bad," he admitted, half-grinning. The demon snarled, maw almost close enough to actually eat his face off if not for Dante's sword. It was an ugly son-of-a-bitch, all crooked fangs and slithery skin, but then, weren't most demons? Not like they had too many beauty contests in Hell.

"Kill..." The thing hissed, voice thick, as if it weren't used to moving a physical mouth, speaking actual human words. "Dante... Kill..."

Dante slid back another inch-- the damned thing was built like a tank. Dante firmed his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"Don't worry," he told it, voice betraying not a moment's strain. "I will."

It took a little effort, but that was good-- Dante needed a workout from time to time. Metal rasped against metal as his sword slowly began to push back the demon's massive but ragged-looking blade. The thing made a noise-- maybe surprise, maybe anger-- and pushed back. Dante's sword shivered... and held.

"Sorry," Dante smirked, voice conversational, like they were having a chat about the weather. "Maybe you didn't get the memo? I eat fuckers like you for breakfast."

It only took a twist of the wrist, a slide to the side-- so intent on reaching him, cutting him, rending him, the demon's own momentum practically did the slicing for Dante. There was a horrid wet squelch as his blade slid through meat, muscle, bone, and then the entire top half of the demon's body was sliding to the floor. Through some trick the lower half stayed standing on quivering legs for a moment longer before it too slumped to the marble, twitching and gushing out ichorous hot blood.

Dante flicked his sword, scattering thick puddles of demon-blood across the walls with their empty picture frames and naked shelves.

"Hmf. Too damn easy." Dante leaned on his sword and surveyed the carnage. "Was that the best you could do? Seriously? I've had more trouble on a bad _date_." Well, if you considered Lady shooting you in the head (twice) to be a date, which Dante privately sort of did. What could he say? He liked the aggressive types.

"Impressive." The voice seemed to float on the air, echoing, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was a nice voice, low and mellifluous, the kind of voice you'd want to hear reciting poetry or telling bedtime stories. Dante was pretty sure he wasn't about to get a bedtime story. Call it a hunch, maybe.

"I try," Dante said, with enough fake humility to be obnoxious. He kept his casual pose but his eyes were scanning the shadows, looking for the source of that voice. "Why don't you come on out, and we'll discuss all the other impressive things about me."

Laughter, thick and sweet, trembling off the walls. It shivered down Dante's spine like an actual touch, like fingers slipping down his skin. Whoa. That's a new trick.

"I don't know," said the voice. "Maybe you're too much man for me, Dante."

"Yeah, that's what a lot of girls tell me. Not usually till I've got my pants off, though."

Another laugh, this one even more delighted than the last. "I just bet they do."

Dante couldn't suppress a shiver at that too-intimate sound, so close to a real touch he was tempted to look behind him, to see if someone really _had_ just slid a hand lingeringly over his ass. _No one's there. Dammit, I know there's nobody there._ "Whoa there, back off. I'm not used to getting the bad-touch from someone who ain't even touching me yet."

"Do you want me to touch you, Dante?" Words breathed warm and soft against his ear.

Fuck it. Dante whirled, sword flashing out at-- Nothing. Damn. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Why, nothing." The voice sounded mock-surprised. Dante could almost picture wide eyes, a hand placed against a chest with a _Who, little old me?_ look. "Not yet, anyway." It laughed again, so low and hot that Dante could almost feel hands sliding down his chest to his belt.

He gritted his teeth. "This isn't following the script, honey. You gonna just _molest_ me to death?"

"What a way to go," the voice whispered, breathy and eager, the sort of tone you'd normally have to pay two dollars and ninety-nine cents a minute for. It slid against his skin like warm fur and Dante fought the urge to jerk away. When you weren't really being touched, what was there to jerk away _from_?

"Okay, fine, we can do two things here," Dante said, trying vainly not to notice the way it felt like fingers were sliding through his hair. "One: you come out, we fight, and I slice you into eensy little bite-sized chunks."

"Hm, perhaps not." It felt like lips against his ear, and no amount of brushing could get the sensation off. "What's my other option?"

Dante grinned, but it wasn't a smile, just a baring of teeth at the darkness. "Fine. Two: you fuck off, and I go home. I don't need demons when I got a desk drawer full of Playboys right at home."

The laugh now was higher, sharper; a caress, but this time with the threat of sharp nails, skirting the edge of pain. Dante hissed and only just stopped himself from slipping a hand under his vest to check for the thin lines of blood he'd swear he could feel trickling down his back. "Oh, Dante. Is that really enough for you? I could make it so good. I'd tie you down and ride you so hard. You'd want it, in the end."

The phantom press of shackles around his wrists caught Dante's breath in his throat. _It's not real. It's just an illusion. _Out loud he kept his voice steady, hot with scorn. "Sorry, but I'm not that kind of guy. I need dinner and a movie first, y'know?"

The hallway lights flickered, as if betraying the impatience the voice wouldn't show. "I can do more for you than any human girl could. You're shivering, Dante, and I haven't even touched you yet."

It was kind of true. Dante snarled. "Don't flatter yourself. Why're you hiding? Your face too ugly to match that pretty voice?"

The lights dimmed again, then steadied. "I am more beautiful than you could ever imagine." There was still that playful come-get-me tone, but Dante thought he could hear something like indignation under it.

He relaxed his posture once more, leaning casually on his sword like it was a gentleman's cane. "I dunno," he said, pretending to examine his nails, "I can imagine quite a lot."

Silence, for one long moment. Nothing breathed against his ear. No phantom hands slid through his hair. Nothing, nothing, so quiet that Dante could hear his own heartbeat, his own blood rushing in his ears.

Then the lights slid low, dimming to bare candle-light. Shadows slid along the wall, figures that weren't there, long slinking shapes that danced at the corner of his vision, catlike and slow. Dante held steady. _Don't move. Don't even look._

One shadow seemed to slide away from the rest, growing darker than the others, liquid, like something honey-thick. It bowed and wove for a moment like a dancer doing an arabesque, and when it slid upright again it had pulled itself tighter in.

Dante turned his head slowly to watch it. The not-shadow flowed closer, impossibly graceful, changing as it moved until he could pick out lines and curves and shapes. _Don't move. Don't even breathe._

There was no point where it stopped being a shadow and became a woman, at least not that Dante could see; the change was so smooth, like water adapting to the shape of a glass.

"There, do you see?" She wasn't yet close enough to touch. "Am I not beautiful?"

She was. Dante couldn't keep his eyes from roving, because when a goddess approaches you clad in nothing but gold and blood-red jewels and endless waves of black hair, it would be sacrilege not to look. He found himself nodding without even intending to answer her.

She held out her arms in invitation. Bracelets glittered there, tiny spangles of gold, and they chimed musically with every gentle motion. Circles of gold sparkled elsewhere, too-- a band at her throat, heavy with ruby droplets; a chain at her waist; delicate rings through each rosy nipple.

There was something wrong with her eyes, though Dante couldn't tell what. It was hard to care when there was so much else to look at. She took a step forward, slinking as only cats can-- large cats, the kind with velvet fur and brutal claws and hungry, pitiless eyes.

"Don't you want me, Dante?" Her lips were so full, so very red, as red as the rubies at her throat.

"No," said Dante, but it came out hoarse, and he was fairly certain it wouldn't match the look on his face anyway.

"Liar." She smiled when she said it, like she was pleased. Her hips swayed entrancingly. Dante knew exactly where he wanted to put his hands, how easily, how perfectly they would fit, as if her body had been made just for him. Maybe it had been.

She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume: roses and honey, with a hot dribble of cinnamon. He could almost taste it on the back of his tongue, so sweet and rich, so tempting. "Fuck," he said, voice squeezed down low.

Her smile slid wider, and he watched her wet her lips. "Now you're getting the idea." Her eyes were eager, so eager and red, red like rubies, red like blood--

Instinct made him move, instinct and too many years of fighting for his life. It was like time skipped a frame; one moment he was staring at her dazedly, the next he was staring dazedly at the sword piercing her chest.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Dante was glad. He didn't want to know what sort of feelings would slide across his skin if she screamed. Her eyes were wide and surprised, as if she'd never believed he'd strike.

It was like watching a bit of film in slow motion as she fell, sliding off the end of his blade, still graceful as silk. She crumpled to the ground, as artful as a ballerina. No blood flowed from the wound. The edges looked as soft as wax, curling back slightly to show him the dark red interior....

Not blood. Not meat. Dante took a startled step back as something welled up from the wound, something long and sinuous and candy-apple red--

"Snakes," Dante said, to no one in particular, "why does it always have to be snakes?"

They were slender, jewel-toned things, almost pretty until they started wriggling out en masse, widening the wound with their furious pushing. Her body trembled, not with death but with the sheer number of writhing bodies trying to squirm just under her skin.

Dante put the sword away and yanked out both guns. "Sorry, baby. This just got a little too Freudian for me."

The shots echoed with deafening force in the hallway as Dante pulled the triggers, again and again and again. If the snakes made any noise, he couldn't hear it. Bits flew everywhere: squirming, trembling, shining bits. A few desperate stragglers stretched toward his feet; Dante crushed their tiny fragile heads beneath the soles of his boots. The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, and underneath that the thin, sour smell of snakes' blood. It twined noxiously with the last remnants of cinnamon and rose.

When Dante stopped shooting there was little more than a very nasty mess left, as if someone had spilled their strawberry oatmeal all over the floor. The thought made him vaguely nauseous. _Great. Add another to the list of foods I'll never want to eat again._ It would be a long time before he'd be able to stomach cinnamon toast as it was. _Well, it coulda been worse. She coulda smelled like pizza._

The hall stayed silent this time. No rustling sounds, no sweet low voices, just Dante and his rapid pulse and the sound of his own breathing.

He gave it another minute just to be sure, and then he holstered his guns. The electric buzz in his head was gone. With a sigh he shook his head. "Dames. Nothin' but trouble. Maybe I should stick to the fold-out two-dimensional kind for a while."

The door seemed like it was a million miles away, but finally he was outside again, stepping out into the cool dark night. It wasn't even dawn yet; the sky still glittered with careless stars.

A figure leaned against the gate as he approached. _Of all the damn rotten luck--_

"Hi, Dante." Lady smirked at him with that too-knowing look in her eyes, the one that said _I know who's been a bad boy tonight._ She cocked her hip, every line of her body suddenly a dare. Was her skirt shorter than usual? No, no. If the damn thing got any shorter it would be a belt.

"Lady." It was hard not to look at her legs. It just was. "If you're here for the party, you already missed all the action."

She shrugged and shook her head, still smiling her I-know-a-secret smile. "Not my kind of action. I thought I'd leave it to someone with the right... equipment."

Damn her. How did she always _know_?

"Yeah, well." Dante walked past her, doing his best to project supreme I-don't-give-a-fuck. "Turned out I didn't need it in the end."

"No?" She sounded like she was laughing. "What do you need?"

"A pizza. A beer." He paused, then threw her a look over his shoulder. He poured everything he had into his wolfish grin. "A really good blowjob."

He should've known better. Lady was never phased. Her eyes glinted hard in the starlight.

"What a pity. I'm all out of pizza and beer."

Dante missed a step, overbalanced, and went down hard. He gaped up at Lady like a landed fish. "You _serious_?"

Her grin was as sharp as his had been. "_If_ you beat me at pool."

"Fuck," said Dante.

Lady looked far too pleased-- cat with canary, cream, and all. "_Now_ you're getting the idea."


End file.
